


Long Way Down

by miikkaa_xx



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-17 22:44:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miikkaa_xx/pseuds/miikkaa_xx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia's always known Peter could get into her head. What she finally discovers is that she can haunt him too. Mild spoilers up to S3E4 "Unleashed".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Way Down

**Author's Note:**

> for the lovely [Moira](http://ramiels.tumblr.com/).
> 
>  **warnings:** language, explicit sex. this fic is unbeta'd - feel free to point out any errors in prose and/or characterisation.

-

Her research begins the day after she found the murdered virgin boy at the swimming pool.

The last few months had been a reprieve. Now that she knew Peter Hale had a physical body and had disappeared from the supernatural scene almost completely - she’s not foolish enough to believe Derek doesn’t keep in contact with his last family member, murderer or not - Lydia had believed that he was gone for good out of her life and, most importantly, _out of her head_.

Apparently not if she was losing time and going to swimming pools instead of the pharmacy, foregoing ibuprofen for sacrificial nightmare fuel.

Admitting the fact out loud to Stiles - ‘this only happened with Derek’s uncle’ - was the first step. Ending it would be her next, because clearly it wasn’t over.

At first, Lydia thought the internet would have archives already uploaded and accessible for herself, but apparently 2013 hadn’t reached that level of technological advancement, so she holed herself up in the central library - armed with a notebook, pens, and earplugs.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise that Beacon Hills had an overwhelming amount of information regarding mythology when she supposed their history was rooted with werewolves and kanimas and god-knows-what-else. What does interest her is the history of the books themselves. Lydia finds herself eyeing the bookkeeping cards still glued to the inside of the back covers, her fingers tracing the edges of the sheets of yellowed paper with names written down of those who had taken the book out in the earlier years, before self-checkouts had made the cut to government services.

Half a week later, Lydia meets Deaton, his childish handwriting from the library cards not matching the cool, professional tone he uses when she walks into the clinic sans pet.

‘Hello, how may I help you?’ He’s standing behind the counter and Lydia notices his hands first. They’re clean, nimble in the way he spreads them over the wood, palms facing upwards, showing her he’s unarmed, harmless.

‘Scott tells me you know something about werewolves,’ she starts off because she figures Deaton is the sort of person who appreciates a little bit of directness.

‘Some things,’ he agrees, voice neutral.

‘And I’m sure you know who I am.’ It’s a statement out of acknowledgement rather than arrogance.

‘Lydia Martin, Scott’s friend,’ he replies. She notices that he keeps himself very still - eyes trained on her own, mouth pressed in a tight line of apprehension.

‘And Peter Hale’s mindslave,’ she supplies helpfully. ‘In case you forgot. I heard you helped Derek after I inadvertently poisoned him and resurrected his sociopathic uncle.’ Deaton fidgets, uncomfortable. Finally, a weakness. Lydia traces her nails over the edge of the counter, watching him. ‘I’d like _you_ to tell me all about what I did. About the ritual, about the resurrection, and about the side-effects.’

The last part catches his attention, she notices. His eyes flick from her face to the counter and back again. The wood is cool under her fingertips but there must be something here that she’s missing.

‘You’re very... precocious for a teenager, aren’t you?’ He’s eyeing her, a little bit wary, maybe distrustful. Lydia smiles - admiring his vocabulary. She knew he would be a smart one. The lights make his face look drained. ‘Why don’t you pull up one of the visitor’s chair?’ He sighs, giving in.

They’re not going to do this in his backroom, nor is he going to let her cross the counter. She wonders if it’s because she’s a teenage girl or a killer’s accomplice. Following through, she seats herself, hands on her knees, and watches him as he begins.

At the end of their conversation - or Lydia’s 3 hour interrogation, Deaton jokes weakly - she doesn’t learn much from him that she doesn’t know already. Whether it’s mathematics or werewolf mythology, Lydia doesn’t come into any situation unprepared.

However, Deaton does give her two important tidbits of information, as well as supplying some extraneous details of the entire past year that her friends had oh-so-conveniently forgot to mention.

It goes like this: 1) mind possession is a two way street; 2) what Peter can do to her, she can do to him.

‘How do you know?’ she demands because so far Peter could be Singapore for all she’s heard of him. And when she did know where he was - in her head - she was a screaming, terrified wreck with no control. No autonomy.

‘He lived inside your head,’ says Deaton, brow furrowed, ‘and a smart one like you should know every nook and cranny of your mind.’ He sounds confused, as if this is information she should have already known. It makes her hackles rise.

‘Well, I don’t know anything about him and he knows everything about me. I’m at a disadvantage.’

Deaton raises an eyebrow, ‘are you going to fight him?’

Lydia makes an impatient noise in the back of the her throat. ‘Obviously. He’s still wreacking havoc inside my head. I intend to get him the hell out.’

‘He’s an alpha,’ replies Deaton, voice going soft.

‘He’s a werewolf,’ she says, ‘that means he’s part man. That means I can still get him.’ Narrowing her eyes, Lydia continues, ‘and now you’re going to tell me how to get to the part of my head where he used to live.’

It involves more bullshit magic - no solid science where Lydia can comfortably rest her feet on - and it makes her just a little bit paranoid.

‘It’s just a bit of hypnosis,’ says Deaton, ‘just keep sitting where you are. Focus on the feel of the wood under your fingers. Listen to my voice. Control your body, reign it in, calm it down.’

That she can do. Lydia has always excelled at challenges and her breathing evens out, easing into whatever crap Deaton is saying.

An hour later, she’s shaking and sobbing, feeling burn scars trailing up her skin, screams echoing in her ears, the husk of a human being resting inside of her, filled with sociopathic glee and a taste of blood to appease his anger that shimmers just underneath.

One shuddering breath after another, Lydia finds herself, curling around the familiar voice of her own head, starts reciting formulas, words four syllables long, the theory behind oscillation, propulsion, acceleration, torque -

‘And now you know him,’ says Deaton as he hands her a tissue.

She wipes at her eyes and frowns at the smudged mascara. It’s past closing time for the clinic but Deaton doesn’t move from behind the counter. Quickly, she says goodbye and almost vomits on the way home.

-

He’s appropriately surprised when she returns the following day.

‘Now, teach me how to get inside of him and control him.’

Deaton eyes her warily. ‘Lydia, you’re exhausted,’ as if he can see past the concealer and the toner, the light brush of blush, the arc of her eyeshadow. Chinks in her armour.

‘This is nothing,’ she dismisses, gaze hard. ‘This is _nothing_.’ He’s smart enough to find the insinuation. It takes a beat, but he relents.

It’s almost midnight when Lydia exits the clinic, and she almost wants to skip home.

-

What Deaton gives her is theory, which leaves her floundering at the practical. It takes more control and precision than she expects to access Peter’s life that lives in some place slipped far between the cracks of her own psyche again.

By the end of the first week, she knows him like she knows her old novels, a pair of well-trodden sandals, the faded colour of a favourite dress. He’s something that shifts in the recesses of her memories - muted in colour and emotion now that she knows what to expect when she retreats back to that part of him.

The more important thing she learns in the vestiges of his memory is that Peter isn’t infallible, no matter how much of a persona he puts in front of the world. He still needs allies, accomplices, Laura, Derek, Scott, Lydia.

Soon she’s brushing up against something that is far more intimate, far more insecure. It shifts and curls - a consciousness that lurks just beneath the well-delved scientific observations of the brain that she’s studied. Lydia chalks it up to magic, but it still doesn’t ease her wariness at poking at their - what? Telepathic connection?

Discoveries weren’t made by scientists avoiding their experiments - so Lydia pushes through the wall between her and Peter. Her energy narrows down to the point where she can _feel_ his thoughts lurking under her own stream of conscious, and when she dives in, her vision blurs, then changes.

Lydia blinks, her throat clogged up, the air feeling a little thin as if she’s seeing the outside world through a dirty pane of glass. There’s a long street, dusk is setting, and the blurred outlines of trees and cars lining the neighborhood. She’s moving forward, the pace leisurely, the setting vaguely familiar. Realization comes slow to her - she’s viewing the world from behind the fogged eyesight of Peter Hale. He’s taking a walk through Beacon Hills - the sunset matching the one she feels against the back of her neck from her own bedroom window.

He’s still _here_ , close to her, and tries to focus on the rest of him. Tries to ease her sensory to his. The feel of the soft cotton of her bedsheets under her legs eases away to the easy chafe of jeans up against her skin, there’s something warm and a little stiff around her arms. She’s fucked enough boys and worn their clothes to know that’s the feel of a leather jacket.

Here, now, Lydia is under him, in him, feeling him around her, and the entire concept is intoxicating. Peter Hale pressed against her skin - and, for the first time in a long time, Lydia knows _control_. She lets him guide his way through the streets, lets him tilt his head and glance at the street sign - just off the edge of downtown she knows.

Ten minutes. His body and his mind - slip-sliding sensations igniting nerve-endings in her brain’s hemispheres that let her experience Peter Hale in muted definition - are torn away from her when her vision begins to crack and blacken, jerking her out of his conscious in a vicious tug.

She lasts ten minutes. Lydia falls on her back on the bed, eyes wide, the ceiling coming into focus in all it’s smooth, white-painted glory. Her body feels heavy, exhausted, but ten minutes, Miss Martin. It’s a B at best, but I know you can improve. You have potential.

Lydia’s always loved challenges.

-

She doesn’t tell Allison, nor Scott, and not even a hint of it to Stiles, the perceptive brat. It’s a private session in the walls of her bedroom where she hasn’t felt completely safe in since last year. Controlling her dives into Peter’s psyche leaves a sweet taste in the back of her mouth whenever she comes back out of it and looks around her, her room feeling a little bit emptier, a little bit more secure, now that she _knows_ he’s outside of it.

The dives themselves initially last ten minutes, then fifteen, then twenty. Lydia takes up meditation to keep the constant analyses in her mind to a minimum, to build up her stamina of concentration when her entire body tenses as it fits under Peter’s skin like a stiff leather glove. It’s another week before she’s slipping into him daily - propped against her headboard in high heels, her makeup flawless, her hair in artful tumbles around her shoulders. He might not see her, but she still goes into battle armoured.

She catches him at mostly domicile moments. Peter has a taste for his steak just before medium rare and owns antique, polished silverware to eat it with. His clothing is simple but flattering on his frame, just on this end of expensive - dark-washed jeans, sometimes trousers, jackets and v-necks, alligator shoes and three watches: silver, gold, and blue.

His penchant for aesthetics extends from his fashion to his living space. While the apartment itself is a classic bachelor pad, Peter takes to cherrywood tables and dark leather. There’s no minimalism found in where he lives - a blooming peace lily near the windowsill, a vase of false yellow flowers on the kitchen table, framed photographs of newspaper cut outs scattered along the hallway - Derek at ten, Laura at fifteen, Cora at seven, Peter’s brother, Peter’s sister. Greyscale and fading under light exposure. Grainy, muted, blurred. Lydia imagines Peter likes his past that way.

His bedroom isn’t the opulent, self-contained arrogance she expects like with Jackson. It’s a double-bed, fitted with cream sheets and a single brown duvet. His bedside table has books stacked on top of each other, some cracked with age, others untouched, and a single lamp. There is a dresser - also modestly sized but no mirror. The apartment is kept clean though she’s never caught him doing anything past washing dishes and hanging up laundry in his closet.

By the end of her first two weeks of sinking into his skin, Lydia feels as if she _knows_ him. Peter Hale - all burned up from his past, still letting it slink between his bones, sink its claws into his psyche. Peter Hale is all broken and remade and broken and remade once more. Twice dead and savouring life the third time around - keepsakes and memories, indulgence and aesthetic. Lydia sees his cleverness in his bookshelf, the self-awareness in the lack of mirrors anywhere but the bathroom, the nostalgia written between his choice of clothing and decor.

Peter Hale appreciates practicality, she knows, but he has a weakness for beauty along with usefulness as she feels her-his fingers bring the polished silver dinner knife through the meat of his dinner.

What he doesn’t know, thinks Lydia as she lies there on her bed, is that when he picked her, he thought of her as a tool when she was actually a weapon.

-

There’s a bitter realization when she drifts back into consciousness, sitting in the music room as Danny and his peers gather their bags and exit the classroom. She’s lost time again. Lost herself god-knows-where, her consciousness blackened out and manipulated by a man that she thought she knew and could stop.

It’s almost unfair, and she wants to find him, rip him to shreds, but she knows she’ll lose. It’s not time yet, and Lydia focuses on deciphering who the music teacher is with Stiles and Deaton at her side, pushing away the fact that Peter led her here before the discovering of his body.

He knows something she doesn’t and the secrecy makes her purse her mouth in irritation. Always come into a situation armed, and if knowledge wasn’t going to be at her side, than she was at a disadvantage. Still, Lydia Martin still knows her loopholes.

That night, she wears her favourite purple dress and a nude lipstick, styles her hair so it drapes over her shoulder, and slips on the black fuck-me pumps that made her legs look three glorious inches taller. Her bed is made, her pillows fluffed up against the headboard, duvet spread and smoothed over. Primly, she swings her legs over the bed, propping herself comfortable against the cushions, and smooths out her dress over her thighs.

One breath, two breaths, three - Lydia closes her eyes, sinks into herself, lets her thoughts dim into a murmur as she presses deep, deeper where Peter has left his claw marks within her mind.

When she slides into his skin and opens her-his eyes, he’s washing his hands in the bathroom sink, the running water feeling cool as it slides away the suds and disappears down the drain. A beat later, the hands shake off the droplets, turn off the tap, and dry themselves on the handtowel hanging next to the sink. With an awkward jerk of the neck, Lydia is suddenly faced with Peter’s reflection in the mirror.

His expression is calm, hair a little bit mussed, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, the cool feel of tile under bare feet. Lydia feels panic ratchet up her spine as he stares into his own eyes, deadly still, arms at his side.

Peter blinks, mouth parting, and then he shifts on his heel and everything falls back into place. Lydia feels her-him open the bathroom door and begin her-his nightly reading of a herbology book that’s recently caught his attention. As if nothing has changed. As if there was no breath or beat or pause.

Lydia shivers back into awareness, her nails digging into her duvet cover, and her teeth clenched together in terror and anger. Furious rage presses into the pit of her stomach as she realizes what has been happening, at the tickling on the back of her neck from his presence, the mocking laughter that she can imagine so very well around her.

If this was the game Peter Hale was going to play, then Lydia - who had just learned the rules - was going to break them. Peter might know that she’s playing around in his head - and has been for weeks now - but he’s always underestimated her. Always. _Always_.

-

Derek is staring at her as she stands imperiously on his front doorstep, snapping bubblegum between her teeth as she repeats her request for his surprisingly slow brain to process. _Why_ was he the alpha again?

‘I don’t talk to my uncle,’ he tells her once its hit him full force what she’s asking. His face gets a little pouty, like a sixteen year old teenager, even though he’s close to ten years older than that. Lydia would’ve found it cute in junior year, but things change, and she wants a challenge instead of a stumbling boy.

‘Really?’ she says, eyes going wide and mocking, ‘So who was it that clawed Isaac’s neck? What about helping you for your little full moon escapade?’ Stiles was never very good with keeping the details to himself. ‘Clearly, you _do_.’

Derek bristles, mouth twisted in a frown now, and draws himself up to his full height, shoulder pressed against the doorframe and glaring down at her. ‘For all I know, you’re working for him.’

Lydia rolls her eyes. ‘Exactly, Derek. I’m working for him, which is exactly why I have no idea how to communicate with him, which is why I’m asking _you_ to talk to him for me.’

‘I don’t even know what your message means!’ He throws his hands up in the air in exasperation, his expression childlike in its mistrust. Lydia used to date these kinds of guys. Key words: used to.

‘Thursday, rallentando,’ she repeats, slowly, drawing out each syllable with its inflections, tries not to americanize it to the point of being unrecognizable. Derek tries it, stumbles, but finishes halfway decent.

‘What does it mean, Lydia?’ he asks her, straightforward, blunt - and Lydia can appreciate this jump of maturity in him. His clear voice, his direct gaze. If only it had come about sooner in him.

‘Use the internet, Derek,’ she drawls before turning on her heel and flouncing away, makes sure her hair catches the light, makes sure she looks as confident as she feels, because she’s going to win. She’s no silver polished dinner knife held poised between long fingers. She’s the blade that cuts, that bites, that slides flawlessly between the ribs, angled at the heart.

-

For her mouth, it’s the red of fresh blood, the arch of confidence in her brow, the smooth complexion of immaculate beauty. For her clothes, it is the silk of the wealth and decadence that she lives in - her torso lovingly laved in a black dress, cutting short at her thighs to see flesh that descends and arches neatly into shining fuck-me pumps.

Lydia takes special care for her nails, shines and curves the cuticles until they’re uniform and dangerous. Her hair she leaves untouched - lets it be a little bit disarray, a hint of wild. It’s a bit cliche that she braids aconite through her hair, drapes purple petals through red strands, feeling a little like Little Red preparing for the inevitable. The finishing touch is a silver locket - full to the brim with mountain ash - around the neck.

Armed and dangerous, Lydia leaves her phone, leaves her purse, wallet, and life behind her as she drives to the school. Twirling her keys around her finger, she takes the duplicate that she made for the back door and unlocks it, leaves it propped open, as she eases through the darkened hallways.

It’s a half-moon tonight sliding into the window’s view as Lydia walks the perimeter of the open music classroom. The blinds are thrown up and the glass cracked open to catch the breeze. A wind picks up, tickles up the back of her calves as she leaves her keys on the sill. The grand piano sits proudly on the raised pedestal in the middle of the classroom, and she drags the stool out from underneath, sits down, crosses her legs, waits - weapons at the ready.

It doesn’t take long.

She presses her palms onto the wood of the stool, doesn’t move as shadows creep and slink over the corners of the room, the long rows of the chairs, the abandoned music stands. The wind screams through the night, slams through the screen and scatters Chopin’s Etude Op. 10 No. 4 over the polished floor.

Her eyes track the fluttering descent of the opening page when polished shoes appear at the corner of her eyes.

‘Rallentando,’ he says, his voice low and pleasant. Deceptive. ‘You noticed my book on music.’ Something like pleasure seeps between his tones, and it makes Lydia’s hackles rise. She raises her eyes, takes him in. Dressed in black trousers and a deep blue button-up, Peter seems disconcertingly formal, yet - stepping back - Lydia sees how they both complement each other.

She cocks her head, quirks her red mouth upwards in a mockery of smile, ‘I’m surprised you were even smart enough to understand and come here.’

‘Oh, Lydia, don’t sell yourself short,’ he says, laughter caught in his throat, and he leans down to pick up a music sheet, his eyes flicking over the notes. ‘Now, don’t keep me in suspense. What is the occasion?’

He might be an alpha, but he’s still a man. There are magics in this world that no science can explain, but Lydia wields them to perfection. She smiles, uncrosses her legs, stands up and doesn’t totter in her five inch heels. ‘Don’t you think we need a little face-to-face after all we’ve gone through?’

Peter looks at her then, takes her in his gaze, eats her up and swallows her down. Lydia is waiting for it to take effect - like a sleek poison slipping into his veins. He parts his mouth, let’s the tip of his tongue dab at the middle of his bottom lip. ‘Was the telepathy not enough, dear Lydia?’

‘You know I could only get in your head if you let me. You’re the one with the practice. Why’d you let me in, Peter?’ Her eyes are on him, not letting his gaze go. His pupils don’t flare red at all - they stay shadowed in the blanket of dark in the music room, and that’s enough proof for her. He still underestimates her, still considers her human when he is half-human as well.

‘You’ve always been intelligent,’ and he sounds inexplicably _proud_ , as if he is her guardian, her father, her _anything_. ‘I let you in because it simply takes less energy to resist you.’ He drops Chopin, lets the white paper flutter downwards like a crippled moth.

And _that’s_ not right. Lydia’s brow furrows. Peter doesn’t make mistakes like that. Let potential enemies creep through his deep, dark secrets in his head. Spy on his life, even if it is at moments of normalcy. That’s demonstrating a weakness that his paranoid alpha side would never show. Suddenly, she’s laughing, moving towards him - one step at a time, heels clicking clearly through the music room.

Peter’s hands are at his side, remaining deadly still as she tilts her head and looks him in the eye. ‘You’re lying.’

He smirks, but his eyes are cold and narrow. ‘I always knew you were beautiful and intelligent.’

‘You let me in because you can’t block me out,’ Lydia says, triumph in her voice, ‘I couldn’t block you when you were in me. You can’t block me when I’m in you.’

‘And what exactly do you plan to do with that information?’ His voice is delicate, different. Something like caution ratcheting up his spine. Lydia licks her chops, readies for the kill.

‘Nothing, if you don’t push me,’ she warns, enunciating each syllable clearly.

‘Rallentando,’ he says, ‘to slow down, slacken.’ He’s watching her, drinking her in, a bit wary, a bit angry. ‘What exactly should I back off from, Lydia?’

‘My head,’ she snaps. ‘Get out - don’t make me lose time anymore, don’t control my body, don’t use me for your own ends. I don’t know what’s happening in this town - alphas and sacrifices, but I will not be your puppet.’

Peter doesn’t react - not overtly - but Lydia finds their mental connection, prods at it and catches a string of rage and wariness threaded between muted thoughts. ‘It would do no good for me to come around your school, y’know,’ he says conversationally. ‘I need someone to speed the process along.’

‘Are you justifying your actions to me?’ she asks, appalled.

‘Is that what is sounds like? I meant it more of an insult - if only you teenagers would get your acts together...’

‘Then tell us what you know.’ Suddenly, Lydia realizes there’s no doubt Derek and Peter are related with that thread of childishness still fused into their personalities, except Peter has always been craftier, illusionary.

‘You know the only one I would tell is you, Lydia,’ he says, as if favouring her is a point in his cause. She takes a step back, straightening her shoulders and back.

‘Get out, Peter,’ she repeats, certain, deadly.

‘Or what?’ He reaches forward, claws out from his nails and tracing over the bare skin of her shoulder, making shivers prickle down her body. ‘You are intelligent, you are beautiful, and you are immune, but you’re still human, Miss Martin.’

‘So are you,’ she breathes, warning smearing over the syllables, but he seems to disregard them as his hand slides down her arm, pricking at the crook of her elbow.

He hums in acknowledgement but flashes his red alpha eyes for a split-second as if to remind her that the part that isn’t human can be insurmountably powerful. Lydia sucks in a breath and steps back in his space, chin raised.

‘Show me your human part then,’ she challenges. Peter exhales, runs his tongue along the ridge of his teeth, and leans down. He smells of pine and earth and forest. He smells of expensive cologne and leather. He smells of man and wolf, and Lydia licks into his mouth to experience him in every way.

It should be disgusting, it should be wrong - but sex is also a game, also a tug-o’-war of power and control. Because Peter’s a man and the chemistry of hormones shooting off between the dendrite and synapse is predictable and Lydia has always been able to work her magics.

His mouth is a searing warmth as it burns her inside and out. Perhaps it’s irony that he can be scalded and destroyed by fire, but still lick tongues of heat into her. His restrain and control cracks as she slides her tongue alongside his, tastes the espresso that he likes to have post-dinner and the spike of mint from gum he must’ve had afterwards.

There are hands on both her arms, the pricks of his claws just skimming over her skin, leaving barely-there goosebumps behind. When he pulls away, his mouth is red and slick with spit and her lipstick. Lydia feels wonderfully debauched and powerful as Peter’s irises bloom.

‘You’re playing a dangerous game, Lydia,’ he says, not as a warning, simply a statement of facts.

‘Don’t like to share?’ she asks, confident in the fact that he knows about her sexual appetite, about how she’ll fuck boys because sex is good, sex is fun, sex is victory.

Peter’s mouth curls and he kisses her again, a hand on her waist, wrapping around and pressing her up against him. The other hand trails over the exposed skin of her thigh and he hooks her leg over his waist. She blurts out a moan, unashamed, and it only makes him react harder, faster. His mouth moves away from hers and he scrapes his teeth over the line of her jaw, his barely-there stubble leaving red lines on her skin.

Her arms come around his neck as she arches her back, letting his mouth work over the tendon between jawline and collarbone. He bites at the skin, laps at it, and kisses his way down till he senses the mountain ash in the silver locket at her throat.

‘You planned this.’ He sounds less bewildered and more proud. His claws clink against the silver and flutter away. ‘Do you mind?’

‘The ash stays,’ she tells him, ‘and so does the aconite.’

‘An intoxicating smell, did you know that?’ Peter licks a line up her neck, nuzzling in the crook behind her ear. The petals are braided on the other side, where he won’t dare touch. ‘What else do you have for me?’

‘Only this,’ she replies and takes the feelings of her wet cunt, the aching want in the pit of her stomach, and feeds it into their mental connection where he knows he can feel it.

Peter rears back, eyes red. ‘I can smell it,’ he says slowly, and the fangs are forcibly retreated back into his mouth with great will. ‘But to _feel_ it - ’

Lydia smirks, because sex has always been her ballgame and Peter is an old man who doesn’t know anything about humans no matter how long he’s live and how long he’s manipulated. She jumps upwards and swings her other leg around his waist, knowing his reflexes will catch her without hesitation. He does, and she grinds against his trousers, feeling his half-hard cock underneath.

‘C’mon then,’ she goads him, and he exhales, a growl written underneath the sound. He’s craning his neck downwards again, kissing her as his hands adjust her thighs on his waist and press up against her leaking cunt. He’s shoving back into her in a slow rhythm, grinding slowly but surely and each push-pull gets him harder and harder. Lydia lets out another slutty moan, and it has his grip going tighter, his thrusts a tad harsher.

With stuttering steps, he’s carrying her over to the grand piano, laying her back over the cover of it, and Lydia can’t imagine what she looks like with her hair and aconite spread around her head on the canvas of black, but Peter is attentive, drawing the aesthetics inside of him. He reaches to her side and pulls down the zip of her dress, has her shimmy out of it so it’s bare skin against polished wood, her stomach and breasts bare. He traces his nail around her areola and licks at the underside of her breast, moving up to take the nipple between his sharp teeth.

Lydia sucks in a breath, nerve-endings firing as he laves attention upon her body. His fingers are trailing down her sides and his mouth is working over her nipples, sucking and mouthing wetly at them. Her hands scrape over his skull, threading through his soft hair and he arches his head, pushing back against the weight in pleasure before he’s occupying himself with her breasts once more - cupping them and pressing them together in appreciation.

She feels worshipped in a sense when he licks a line from her breastbone to her bellybutton, nipping at it before his mouth finally reaches the fine brushes of her hair around her cunt. He draws in her scent - all humidity and wet forest earth she hears when he presses the words into her skull - and licks from the apex of her thighs to the tip where her clit peeks out from a flap of skin.

It’s searing, burning, shooting up her spine the way he licks ler - long and deep, eats her out as she deserves to be enjoyed. He tastes her, knows her, draws out her pleasure by massaging her labia with his tongue, flicking at her clit, circling her entrance down below. Her hips twitch and cant upwards, trying to draw him in deeper, faster, but he holds fast.

This is what it’s like to fuck a man, not a boy. Peter may have not enjoyed anyone in this new body for all she knows, but he works over a woman’s body with experience and Lydia can appreciate that. He licks her slowly now, feeling the build-up in the pit of her stomach and letting it ease away again. Over and over, he builds her up, tracing her cunt, and Lydia is sweating with frustration and pleasure, loving it and wanting it to end all the same.

Finally, Peter draws away, licking her slick from his mouth and chin, and unbuckles his trousers, pushing them out of the way along with his briefs to take out his cock. It’s a thick piece, already leaking at the tip.

‘Do werewolves have STD’s?’ she asks him, propped up on her elbows to watch him tug at his dick, hold it tightly around the base to ease his urge to come. Peter exhales harshly, looking at her even as his shoulders are tight with tension at holding his wolf part back.

‘You’re the first I’m having with this new body,’ he tells her, ‘aren’t you lucky.’ He’s too aroused to be properly witty right now and Lydia wants to laugh.

‘Perfect,’ she replies, throwing her legs up in the air for him to catch around the back of the knees. ‘I want you to come in me.’

‘Fuck,’ she hears him blurt before the familiar burning heat of a cock is at her cunt and it’s easing into her, opening her up and leaving her shivering as she’s filled. It’s so good - so fucking hot - the way she can feel it curve and twitch inside of her and Lydia lets out a breathless keen of invitation for him to keep going.

He eases his hips back and shoves in, fucking her deep and slow, and Lydia can feel the catch of her skin on the veneer underneath her as her body rocks with his rhythm. Getting fucked on a piano is not her definition of romantic, but it’s a flat surface on which she can recline on to see Peter Hale lose control.

The initial rhythm stutters when Lydia clenches her cunt around him, milking his cock, and Peter’s claws dig into her skin. ‘Watch it,’ he snarls, and Lydia sneers back at him.

‘Then fuck me harder,’ she orders him, and Peter’s eyes go wide at the invitation, before he’s ramping his hips _hard_ against her. Slowly, by increments, he’s losing control as he fucks her deep and fast and _good_. With force and energy, his cock working her cunt open, letting it get wet and the arousal in her body become tighter and tighter, waiting to explode.

Without hesitation, Lydia reaches between her legs and thumbs at her clit, letting her nerve-endings jolt with glorious waves of pleasure as she works herself on his thrusting cock. Peter makes a strangled sound in his throat when he sees her using him, using his dick, for her own oncoming orgasm. Lydia has no apologies to make - sex is for her fun, her control, her power, and Peter never stood a chance.

‘So fucking good,’ she informs him in a breath, voice breaking somewhere in the middle of her syllables, ‘don’t fucking stop.’

‘Lydia,’ he growls, and she thinks it might be a warning. That’s when the alpha in his eyes flash and her legs are bent even further against her body as he loses any ounce of control he had. There’s no rhythm to this anymore - simply power as he fucks into her.

Her thighs might be bruised in the morning, and there will be marks on the back of her knees from his claws digging into her skin, but it pales in comparison to the glorious feeling of his cock fucking her open ruthlessly and frantically. Peter’s brow is furrowed and his mouth tight and Lydia can feel his cock twitch inside of her as he rams into her.

The pace is faster than she’s ever experienced, but it doesn’t matter when the true treat is how Peter’s alpha fucks her into the piano. He’s ruthless about his cock in her cunt, the push-pull of friction on the sensitive skin as he sinks further and further into his own pleasure.

Lydia presses down at her clit the moment he grinds deep within her and it’s all lost. She comes in a glorious, shattering moment as she clenches and unclenches around his still-moving cock within her. It’s wonderful - not just the feeling, but the victory as her cunt milks him, coating it in slick so Peter groans low and loud, easing up on his thrusts to savour the feeling of her coming all over his cock.

‘Well?’ she gasps out, ‘I said come in me, Peter. I want to feel it.’

He gives a strangled noise of assent and begins his rhythm once more - fast and deep and hard within her oversensitive cunt. Lydia’s body shivers and arches, taking it with a smaller, second orgasm following closely behind.

Peter’s panting, his button-up shirt soaked with sweat, and Lydia realizes she wants to do this again. Again and again, bent over a desk or splayed on her bedsheets, Peter moving between her legs, fucking her into oblivion as he loses absolute control of himself. The thought has her coming once more - weaker but still good as shivers wrack up her spine and make Peter slam harshly into her, letting her milk his dick to the fullest.

Finally, he leans over her torso, hips grinding deep within her, and mouths wetly between her breasts as he pulls back and rams into her once, twice, the friction adding up, and finally loses it. His come fills her up - warm and wet into her gut - as his cock shivers and thrusts weakly into her cunt over and over to ride out the waves of his own pleasure.

It takes a minute to catch their breaths, the silence of the night sliding between them as Lydia tries to wet her mouth again. Peter eases out her gently, slowly, tucking his flaccid cock into his briefs and trousers as he pulls them back around his waist.

She’s naked and victorious, control in her veins, as she knows how to break him down - through both sex and this connection they have. Carefully, she unsticks herself from the veneer of the piano and balances herself on her own two feet. It’s been awhile since she’s had good sex - and she wonders if she’ll be able to fuck someone so wonderfully as Peter in the future.

He’s silent as he watches her dress herself - pulling on the silk dress, sliding into her heels she had kicked off, gathering the fallen blooms of aconite from the piano and throwing them in the trash nearby. There’s some sweat and spit and come on the piano, but she has nothing to wipe it off and neither does he. It doesn’t matter - it’ll dry away in the morning.

Once she’s done, Lydia meets his expectant gaze. ‘Get out of my head or I’ll ruin you.’

Peter - all mussed hair and sticky shirt - still manages to smirk at her. ‘If it’s you, Lydia, then I’m not sure I would mind.’

‘This is a warning,’ she informs him flatly.

‘I know.’ He tilts his head in contemplation. ‘Perhaps I underestimated you, Miss Martin.’

As he sizes her up once more, Lydia slides a hand through her hair, catching a bloom of aconite between her fingers and twirls it. ‘I’ll call you if I want you again.’

‘My phone or my head?’ he asks.

She’s ruthless - ‘what do you think, Peter?’

‘I think I should keep away from you - I’m still half-man, after all.’ She supposes he’s mocking her, but it comes out more serious than he probably expected. Peter narrows his eyes at his own slip and takes a step back, then another. ‘Till another time.’

‘Goodbye,’ she smiles at him, eyes cold, and watches him exit the music room altogether.

Gathering her keys from the windowsill, she starts her way back to the parking lot of the school and almost laughs when she hears a long, lone howl echo into the night.

-

**Author's Note:**

> x-posted to [tumblr](http://alighterwithlove.tumblr.com/post/54791583769/).


End file.
